


Refraction and Reflection At Any Time of Day

by tepidspongebath



Series: Concerning plants and sunlight [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Double Penetration, M/M, PWP, Tentacle Monster Plant Thing, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-14 05:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuation of events resulting from the two previous fics written for  <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=113515674#t113515674">this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme</a> asking for a monster tentacled plant having its way with John Watson: Sherlock gave John the plant, Sherlock watched John and the plant, and now Sherlock is very much involved indeed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snogandagrope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/gifts).



> Well, I figured that I might as well write up a sequel, seeing as I'm going to hell in a fast train anyway. Cheers!

The first time it happened with Sherlock, John, with a certain amount of smug satisfaction, thought that the plant had gone into shock. It had stayed completely still while Sherlock, both encouraged and hindered by John never really letting him out of a second kiss, struggled out of his clothes. And John was suddenly reminded of how much work sex actually was: the plant had spoiled him in that respect, all he had to do was let it have its way with him, and now he had to help Sherlock out of his shirt, his trousers, his pants, coax him onto the bed, and maneuver with and around him, because though they both agreed that they deeply and urgently needed to shag each other senseless, all they were managing to do was grab and push and get in each other's way. 

Eventually, after such communication as was possible between kisses and grunts and stuttered moans,   Sherlock let John prepare him, and it felt like an excruciatingly slow business. John swore steadily as he worked his fingers, slicked with the nectar still glistening on the plant's equivalent of leaves, into his flatmate's arse. And he continued to swear, though for vastly more satisfying reasons, as he began to fuck Sherlock, slowly at first, because he was still trying to be considerate, and then harder as Sherlock egged him on with groans and touches and the way his body simply took John _in_. John still had enough of his mind left to wonder if the plant juice had anything to do with that, but he didn't pursue the idea because Sherlock came, long fingers curled around his prick as John fucked his arse, and John could feel every shred of his orgasm where they were connected, and it didn't take much longer for him to finish after that. 

That was when the plant finally caught on. In the predawn light, through the woolly-headed realization that he had just shagged _Sherlock Holmes_ , John saw the root-tentacles stir, lengthen, and snake their way to Sherlock's lush arse. The consulting detective made a half-hearted sort of whimper as other appendages turned him on his side, and he gasped when three of the root-tentacles - they were thinner than the others, and the tips branched into spindly fibers - pushed into his arse at once. 

"Weird, isn't it?" John propped himself up onto his elbow to watch, let Sherlock take his other hand and squeeze it while the tentacles worked. A few others had curled around his own cock, but John was far too used to that by now. 

"Weird isn't even where  it starts," hissed Sherlock. "You've never had these ones in your arse, have you? Since it's your semen they're after?" 

"I've had a lot more than that in my arse," said John, a touch of rebuke in his voice ( _who started  this plant business  in the first place?_ ). And he relented because Sherlock was writhing so enticingly, even with a fat tentacle wrapped around his waist to keep him still. He opened his arms. "Oh, come here," he murmured, and he held Sherlock to his chest while the plant finished with him. 

It was interesting to note that while the plant went after every drop of John's ejaculate - to the point that it dipped a little tendril into his glans, making him shudder - it left Sherlock's well enough alone. 

Morning was breaking over London by the time it was done, and the two of them slept till noon. 


	2. Chapter 2

John came home that night to find Sherlock in his room, changing the sheets. He hesitated in the doorway, thinking of turning around and hiding out in Mrs. Hudson's flat for the night, because he and Sherlock hadn't talked about what had happened, and John, for his part, had been studiously avoiding Sherlock all day. He didn't know what he felt about what  they'd done: it had been good and very strange and rather wonderful, but the fact remained that he had - quite roughly - fucked his flatmate under the influence of a sex-inducing plant secretion, and, well, it was hard to tell where to go from there, wasn't it? It certainly didn't help that they were friends, or that he'd been entertaining, for some months now, the idea that they could maybe work their way to being a bit more than that. 

And, now that he was paying attention, he couldn't help noticing that the consulting detective's pyjamas had a hastily put-on look to them. 

"It's not interested in me," said Sherlock briskly before John could leave. "I've wanked in here three times since I got home, and it didn't move an inch." 

"Ah." John didn't know how to treat that little nugget of information. He was also unsure of how to deal with the curl of arousal starting low in his belly at the thought of what Sherlock had been getting up to.  True, nighttime arousal had been a regular thing for him ever since the plant had taken up residence in his bedroom, but Sherlock…Jesus, up until last night he'd never been involved as more than a name to curse when the plant used him beyond what felt like the normal human limits. 

"I think it just wants you." Sherlock licked his lips, eyed how the plant was suddenly waving its leaves enthusiastically now that John was in the room. "And so do I," he added, matter-of-factly. 

John nodded, stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him, taking care to slide the latch into place. "That's - that's good," he said slowly. "I mean, I'm glad - no, sorry, that sounds horrible - I was -  I'm…" 

Sherlock didn't let him finish saying what he was. He bore down on John, long hands cupping either side of his face, and kissed him, swiping his tongue between John's lips to make him open his mouth. John tasted something familiar the instant Sherlock's tongue flickered in his mouth, and he took his flatmate by the shoulders, pushed him a little to hold him at arm's length. 

"Just what have you been doing in here?" he asked, sternly. It was hard ( _ha!)_  though, because he was definitely, _definitely_ aroused now, and his eyes kept flicking back to Sherlock's perfect cupid's bow lips, imagining them back on his mouth and _elsewhere_. He shook his head, trying to clear it, and he swallowed because the taste of the plant's nectar was fresh on his tongue. 

"I tried to draw it out," muttered Sherlock, as though he'd rather not talk about it. "It secreted whatever it is it secretes, but nothing else happened." 

John laughed in spite of himself. "Are you telling me that you tried to give a plant a blowjob?" 

"Since the same plant was fucking both of us last night, I don't see why that should be so strange," Sherlock snapped, and he fidgeted in John's grasp as if talking was the very last thing he wanted to be doing at the moment. 

"I guess not," said John, letting himself slip into the warm, buttery, honey-colored haze that the nectar induced. Somehow it felt so much better with Sherlock - with the prospect of Sherlock, warm and naked, in bed with him. And the plant. That too. Essentially, and of course. 

It was, as usual, so much easier after that.


	3. Chapter 3

It was easier for _weeks_ after that.

John started by trying not to think about what they were doing (after all, not thinking about it had served him well enough when it had just been the plant), but he was pleasantly surprised to discover, eventually, that he didn't _need_ to think about it. It was out of the ordinary, certainly, and it was perhaps even outside the bounds of acceptable (as he had said himself, through gritted teeth, the first time that he'd been fucked by _both_ Sherlock and the plant, a heavy, dripping tentacle sliding into his body alongside his flatmate's cock), but it worked. God help him, it worked, even if _it_ was mostly a tacit assumption that they shared a bedroom now. 

When they finally got a case that required some out-of-town legwork, though, John supposed that it was a good thing, and said as much. Sherlock disagreed vehemently and was gearing up for a defensive sulk when John pointed out that while vigorous plant-tentacle-assisted sex every night was enjoyable, he wasn't entirely sure it was healthy, and it was bloody exhausting, damn it, he'd had to put up with it for longer. And Lestrade was starting to wonder why they were  hurrying away from crime scenes instead of towards them, would Sherlock like to explain, or should he? At that point Sherlock grudgingly admitted that catching a drug dealer was probably more important (though the case only rated a 6, and that was being generous), and booked them tickets to Scotland on the grounds that it wouldn't take long anyway. 

They ended up staying three days in Scotland, a week in Norway, two days in Sweden, and a further four days in the south of France. By that time, John was stopping just shy of actually complaining, and Sherlock, consumed and driven by the case as he was (and as John had known he would be, provided that he could be pried away from the flat),  did complain, loudly and often, about the unsatisfactory living accommodations. John smiled fixedly when he did this, and his smile became steadily more fixed as Sherlock went on to expound, sometimes within hearing of other people, that the only good thing about the entire blasted trip was that he'd been able to give John a blow job and swallow (something neither of them had wanted to risk at home, even in other parts of the flat). 

Needless to say, they couldn't get back to Baker Street soon enough. When they finally caught up with the criminal (it was a nasty situation that nearly involved the creative application of thumb screws, which in hindsight would provide good material for the blog), Sherlock practically threw the man at Interpol without crowing about it even once, and they were on a train back to London within the hour, paperwork be damned.

It was midday when they arrived at the flat. John trailed in after Sherlock, vaguely thinking of suggesting that they order food (the meal on the train had been singularly disappointing) as the detective abandoned his suitcase on the landing. And he was about to voice a preference for Chinese as Sherlock went on to discard his scarf, his coat, his gloves, his suit jacket, his shoes, and, with some difficulty, his socks. This would not have given him pause, but Sherlock started to undo his belt as well. 

"Come on, John," he said. "Upstairs. We've got a few hours before Lestrade finds out we're back. And don't look at me like that - you're not actually hungry, we ate on the train." 

"Now, Sherlock?"

"Yes, now. Problem?" This was punctuated by Sherlock dropping his trousers.

"It's the middle of the day."

"Yes?" Sherlock was undoing his buttons now, leaving the rest of his clothes rather like a trail of breadcrumbs behind him as he made his way to the staircase.

John shuffled his feet. After all they'd done and seen done to each other, it really shouldn't have mattered that much, but Sherlock's brusque striptease still had him blushing to the tips of his ears. "I, er, I always thought it was nocturnal..."

"It's been starved for more than two weeks. I really don't think it'll care about time of day at this point. And even if it does, I want sex. With you. Here. Now." Sherlock looked down at his flatmate from where he was halfway up the stairs to the second bedroom, his expression taut. "Please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, this is turning into rather a longer fic than I meant it to be. And, as usual, some suspension of belief ~~a lot, actually~~ is necessary. I am so sorry.


	4. Chapter 4

That was enough for John. He followed Sherlock up the stairs, carefully avoiding the various articles of clothing (he kept his own clothes on, except for his jacket, which he draped over the banister on the first floor). By the time he reached him, the detective was down to his underwear and reaching for the bedroom door. It was unlocked: they had, after much argument, left it open on the off chance that Mrs. Hudson might feel charitably inclined and water the plant if she came in to tidy. There had been small danger of that, however, as she mostly left John to his own devices when it came to cleaning - he was better at it than Sherlock, and that extra flight of stairs was hell on her hip  - and she had expressed in no uncertain  terms  that while she put up with dead body parts and chemistry experiments, she absolutely drew the line at things that moved when they weren't supposed to. (Sherlock had nevertheless been all for asking her outright to take care of the plant while they were away - it still needed ordinary things like watering  - on the grounds it would be safe enough since John was the only human it seemed to be interested in, and John had shot him down because _no_. Just. _No_.) 

The doctor tensed as Sherlock pushed the door open, half-expecting a mass of vines and tendrils to come rocketing out to grab him (it was a perfectly rational thing to think, thank you very much), but nothing happened. Nothing continued to happen when Sherlock padded cautiously into the room, and a surprising amount of nothing went on happening as John crept in after him. 

The plant was still there, in its pot on the bedside table (and it was the  _only_ thing on the bedside table now, John had moved everything else), and it was still alive if the vague, whispery sounds of waxy - for lack of a better word - _leaves_ moving against each other was anything to go by, but it looked...unhappy. Disconsolate. The tips of quite a few of the leaves were an unhealthy shade of yellow, and the entire thing drooped like the last cabbage left at a farmers' market at the end of the day. It ignored Sherlock when the man flopped down on the bed and went through the ungainly motions of removing his pants while mostly horizontal, and that wasn't unusual, but it failed to bestir itself while John started taking his clothes off, and  _that_ was truly uncanny. 

Halfway out of his shirt, John gave the thing a tentative poke. A tendril curled around the tip of his finger and slipped off again, halfhearted and almost listless. 

"I don't think it's doing too well," he said.

"Of course it's not," said Sherlock in the least testy of his you're-being-an-idiot tones (John almost had these catalogued: they came in all shades, from 'for God's sake, I _know_ you can do better than that' to 'how do you even manage to feed and dress yourself?' to ' _Anderson_ '). "It's been glutting itself on your ejaculate every night for months; the deprivation was bound to have come as a shock." He plumped up one of the pillows behind him and fell back on it heavily. "Now come over here, and let's do something about it."

As come-hithers went, it fell a bit flat, but as it had been delivered by a naked Sherlock Holmes on  _his_ bed, John was not about to complain. It surprised him to realize that he'd missed that, the sight of Sherlock willing and waiting and, oh God, touching himself with those long, long fingers on  _his_ sheets, in  _their_ flat, and the doctor decided then and there that going to hotels for sex was overrated, plant or no plant. 

It was troubling, however, that there  _was_  noplant: not when he shed the rest of his clothes, and not when he clambered onto the bed, slotting his body against Sherlock's because it was amazing how they fit together (one day, he resolved, he would tell Sherlock, properly and in detail, exactly what he thought of that - viz., it was magnificent and he never wanted it to change). And not even when the detective curled those long, clever fingers around his cock, stroking,  _touching_ , coaxing him to full hardness with calculated intensity, making him gasp for breath between messy kisses, making his own fingers skitter over the other man's skin - that was good, that was more than good, but it was hard not to think about what wasn't there. That was a bit of a mood killer.

"Anything?" asked Sherlock, and it would have been offensive if John hadn't been half-distracted by the exact same thing.

"Nope." John swallowed, and he groaned, because he had to, because Sherlock's fingers were doing wicked, wicked things: he was holding them both now, and John couldn't have stopped himself from rutting into his hand, against his cock if he tried (not that _trying_ was an option). " _Jesus_." He rolled his hips, pressed his face against Sherlock's neck (he smelled a bit like France, a bit - not unpleasantly - like the train, a bit like his ridiculously expensive cologne, and deliriously of something that was entirely  _him_ ), and, meaningfully, he stroked a hand down Sherlock's side to his arse, his own fingers digging in as best he could between heated skin and the mattress. His flatmate bucked his hips upwards, letting John reach beneath him and  _squeeze._

"Still nothing?" panted Sherlock, and John could feel the tight rumble of his voice in his chest and in his throat.

"No." John shot a look at the plant. A couple of the leaves gave a desultory wiggle, but that was all. Fine. If it wasn't about to do anything, fine. He'd  _told_ Sherlock the blasted thing was nocturnal. There were other things, though, that desperately needed to happen. "But - Christ,  _fuck_ \- you have to let me - will you let me--?"

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's temple. "What do you think?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only meant for there to be _four_ , I am so sorry, it's turning into a little monster of a fic.


	5. Chapter 5

As things with Sherlock went, that invitation was abundantly clear.

There was, as usual, a certain amount of negotiation and positioning, and eventually John had to get up to rummage through his suitcase for the lube they'd bought in Sweden (they'd gotten some in Scotland too, but that had been used up with unseemly haste) as the plant, even after the most assiduous and coaxing of tugs, produced only enough of its secretion to coat the tips of his fingers. Still, it didn't take all that long, and before John had time to get impatient (and perhaps, more significantly, before Sherlock had time to make more than a few impatient noises), he had worked one well-slicked finger into his flatmate's arse. 

Sherlock was on his back, legs spread and bent at the knee, the toes of his right foot digging into the mattress. His lips were parted, his skin suffused with a delightful flush, and John would never, never be able to deny that he loved how Sherlock moved as he fingered him, hips rolling and listing slightly to the left, how he made little non-sounds that were all puffs of warm breath escaping his lips, how he _felt_ from inside, tight and hot and _willing_.  And, because it was _Sherlock Holmes_ after all, there was also the maddening way John knew he was observing everything, even like this, and it did things to him, God help him, knowing that every stroke, touch, stretch, and sigh was being documented by that extraordinary mind. 

And because he was watching Sherlock watching him, drinking in the heady sensation that came of being the sole focus of his full attention, the doctor, caught the brief flick of his eyes to the left, noticed the movement that had drawn them there, and so he wasn't entirely taken by surprise when a tentacle, thin and reedy and barely even moist, slipped in next to his finger.

It made Sherlock hiss in slight discomfort. Though the plant, in its way, welcomed his participation, it was hard not to notice that it seemed to see Sherlock as a means to an end more than anything else (that end being getting John off), and it tended to handle him roughly (not that it was precisely gentle with John), quite careless of whether or not he got any satisfaction from it (John usually took care of that). True to form, the tentacle - and it felt unusually delicate, as if it would break if given a hard enough yank - slithered intimately  against John's finger, caressing it rather than exploring, readying Sherlock's body. It slithered up and down the length of of the digit before settling against it, matching John's rhythm.

Apparently that felt better. Sherlock relaxed, dropped his head back on the pillow with a breathy sigh, and John sought more contact ( _You okay?_ was what he wanted to ask). His free hand skimmed over Sherlock's side and chest, then went to seek the other man's fingers so he could wind his through them, and he bent over to kiss his stomach, dragging his lips up from his navel to his chest. And he was so preoccupied with the taste of sweat and skin that the tentacle entering his arse came as quite a shock. 

He froze, mostly because of the sudden invasion, and partly because this tentative touch was vastly different from all the various ways that the plant had taken him. Sherlock noticed - of course he did - and the one hand he had splayed on the back of John's neck traveled downwards along his spine, over the dip at the small of his back, and his long fingers probed gently at the crease between the doctor's buttocks until they encountered the tentacle and the point where it breached his body. Much as he had the first time he'd watched John and the plant, he touched a careful fingertip to John's stretched entrance.

"Go on," he said, moving his finger, feather-light, in a small semi-circle skirting the plant's appendage then dipping down to apply slightly more pressure on John's perineum. 

"You enjoy this far too much." That came out as a tight growl against Sherlock's skin. 

The detective hummed, fairly purred in agreement as John slid his finger out of him, and eased two back in, with the tentacle rearranging itself, twining around his wrist, stretching across his palm to fit neatly between index and middle finger.  And after the space of a few seconds, the other appendage, the one _inside_ John, did the exact same thing, pulling out, pushing back in with a friend, sinuously mirroring how John was stroking, scissoring his fingers in Sherlock's body.

"Christ," he choked when he realized what was going on, and he had to stop because it really was a bit hard to wrap his head around the idea when it felt like most of the blood in his body was busy elsewhere. It didn't help that the plant froze when he did, poised as though it was waiting for a cue. "The thing - your plant, Sherlock, _your damn plant_ -" John swalllowed, unable to decide whether he was disturbed, or amused, or a strange, confused combination of the two heavily shot through with arousal. "The bloody thing's copying me, that's what it's doing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pokes fingers together*
> 
> I, er, _meant_ to end this with one long (relatively) chapter, but I've been having some difficulty with it, and this has been sitting as a draft forever, so I thought that I should perhaps share this bit while I work the next bit out, and I really should rethink my writing habits, and I do apologize for the monstrous delay.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock gave a low, distinctly dirty huff of laughter that went straight through to John's toes. "Show it what to do then," he said. "Go  _on_."

And so John did, murmuring endearments and expletives both, gripping Sherlock's hand tight - punishingly tight perhaps, but it couldn't be helped, and Sherlock wasn't complaining - because it was becoming monstrously hard to focus. The plant followed his lead, cautiously at first, as if it was having to learn to do this all over again, and then, gaining confidence (or the vegetable equivalent thereof), it started to improvise. Tendrils curled around his wrist and Sherlock's (John wondered if it was entirely his imagination that he could feel Sherlock's pulse there thudding against his - he could, without a doubt, feel it where his other hand was occupied). They looped around his thighs, coiled about his upper arm, and a soft scuffling of sheets behind him suggested that they had taken hold of Sherlock's ankles too. And it was just that - just holding, except of course for the tentacles that were parting John, pressing into his arse - until the plant started touching as well. Delicate, inquisitive little touches: the tip of one appendage running lightly over the shell of John's ear, a tendril coiling around and over Sherlock's right nipple, a tentacle stroking encouragingly up John's spine, another one nudging at Sherlock's navel before edging downwards along the narrow line of hair that led to his groin.

That made Sherlock's breath hitch, made the muscles in his stomach contract, and that made John want to card his fingers through the man's unruly curls, pull him in for a kiss, but the vine holding their arms tightened, pinning them together, at the same time that two or three of the things slid against John's cock. 

And that, well,  _that_ felt like familiar territory.

The tentacles didn't coil, didn't grab - they pressed against him in what could have been construed as a very intense, very slick ( _the plant seemed to be getting nicely into the swing of things, these appendages were practically dripping with secretion_ ), very weird version of frottage. And as if that and Sherlock naked and trembling weren't enough stimulation, the things inside John curled tight against his prostate in a way that no fingers could possibly have done, and the doctor cried out and shuddered, and he might have done something uncomfortable with his fingers - an unplanned jab, or sudden twist - because Sherlock yelped, but that might have been something else entirely, because he was also saying 'please, John, more' over and over again, or rather he was gasping, panting different iterations of that phrase in various shades from demanding to pleading, and John had to admit to a certain amount of smug satisfaction over the sheer number of times that Sherlock ( _Sherlock!)_ actually said the word 'please'.

John was concerned, briefly, that the plant might not let him accede to Sherlock's request, the phrasing of which was growing steadily more indelicate, but he needn't have worried. When he pulled his fingers out with that first tentacle - and that made Sherlock shout, actually _shout,_ John wouldn't have been surprised if they'd heard him in Speedy's -  another, considerably thicker and apparently sturdier, wrapped around the detective's waist and a few more twisted around his thighs, lifting the lower half of him up a few crucial inches, and, for all intents and purposes, presenting him to John, cock hard and dark against his stomach and his arse...oh God, his arse. That sight alone was enough to make John nearly frantic, and it did not help that Sherlock beckoned to him, slender fingers curling in a gesture made ever so slightly less imperious by the soft whine that accompanied it.

He didn't need the plant to guide him down, but he thought, distractedly, that it might have helped if it had, instead of leaving him to his own considerably addled devices. John fumbled, teased without meaning to, the head of his cock grazing Sherlock's bollocks, dragging lightly through coarse, dark curls. It was almost a relief when the tentacles in his arse pulled out, because the sudden emptiness made him feel less like he was burning beneath the skin, let him breathe, let him  _aim._

It should have been easy. It _was_ easy for all of a few seconds: John's cock was slick with pre-ejaculate and the plant's nectar, Sherlock was pliant and mostly held in place, and, as John found out on the first delightful inward push, the tentacle that had been wrapped around his fingers must have been producing some of the secretion as well, because Sherlock was tight and hot and _wet_. And John barely had time to register that - as he had during all those nights (and sometimes afternoons or even mornings) spent in hotel rooms on their trip - because a tentacle, thick and blunt and slippery and eliciting all sorts of tactile memories, pushed into him as well.

John choked back a groan, and then gave up on holding it in when the thing sank a few inches deeper into his body. He rocked forward in a mostly-conscious attempt to get away from it - just for a while, just to let himself acclimatize, because, damn it, had it always been that size? - but that same motion ended as a sharp thrust, which Sherlock met by an upward ( _greedy_ ) cant of his hips, with the end result of John's cock being buried as deep in his flatmate's arse as it was ever likely to go and John almost being driven out of his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

He had to pause again, somewhat awkwardly braced on the arm that wasn't trapped against Sherlock's, reminding himself to breathe while the world (which at that point consisted of him and Sherlock and the bed and the plant and, yes, the rather watery midmorning sunlight coming in through the window, because Sherlock was right, blast it, the thing _was_ too hungry to stay nocturnal) shattered, spun, settled back into focus. And before he had quite come to terms with the fact that all those nerve endings firing off at once hadn't killed him, Sherlock, anxious as ever for more things to be happening  _now_ , had his free hand back on his nape and was pulling him down for a kiss. 

It was glorious once it became less frantic, more of a proper kiss and less Sherlock mashing his mouth against his with their noses getting in the way of everything, and John would have liked to stay like that, for a while at least, pressed against Sherlock and pushed up inside him, about as close to another human being as he could possibly get, tasting him,  _feeling_ him, even with all the waxy tentacles sliding against various parts of their anatomy making it very clear that this wasn't quite the ordinary sort of joyous sharing experience that people usually had. The plant, however, was not a patient thing. In fact, it was about as patient as Sherlock (who was currently arching his back and twitching his hips in an unmistakeable _yes-that's-nice-more-please_ ). And, having exhibited an uncharacteristic degree of that particular virtue up to that point, it seemed to decide that enough was enough, and that it would take matters into its own wriggly appendages from here on out. 

The tentacles tightened abruptly, making John grunt when he felt them digging into his skin. Beneath him ( _around him_ ), Sherlock put up a token amount of resistance as new appendages coiled around his forearm, dragging his hand away from John's neck to pin it above his head on the pillow, and John felt the muscles tense in those ridiculously long legs, felt the attempt at squirming very keenly indeed as the tentacles hauled Sherlock's knees up and apart. 

He meant to ask if Sherlock was all right - that didn't look comfortable at all - but the tentacle in his arse _twisted_ , and what left his mouth instead was an inelegant wordless noise. To be fair, though, it was drowned in the louder, rather more elegant sound that Sherlock made as a slim tendril (it might have been the first one, but it was impossible to be sure) slipped between them to touch its tip to where they were joined. It was not unlike the way Sherlock had touched John earlier - light and inquisitive, moving in a half-circle around John's cock and over Sherlock's sphincter - but the resemblance ended when the thing repeated the motion with a bit more pressure, its slippery coolness a striking counterpoint to the heat of Sherlock's body, obviously seeking to work its way in. 

Sherlock swallowed, fidgeted, his fingernails digging into the back of John's bound hand, and a shudder went through him as he tried to take deep, even breaths, tried to relax because tensing up would do him no good at this point. John did his best to help, making what he hoped were soothing noises, stroked his thumb against the side of Sherlock's index finger, rubbed his free hand over Sherlock's ribs, though God knew that couldn't be effective, not when he was barely holding it together himself, torn between the visceral urge to fuck his flatmate through the bed and wanting to pull away from the questing little tendril. It had managed to slip inside Sherlock now, wriggling against the length of John's cock, moving in tiny circles as it went.

"God," choked Sherlock, a hint of distress edging into his voice. John didn't wonder. The tentacle was working him open even further, and if that slick, fluid movement felt bloody strange to John, heaven knew what it was like for Sherlock (well, John had an inkling, but then the plant had always been nicer - such as it was - to him).

John shifted his hips fractionally, as much as the plant would allow, trying to find a better angle for Sherlock and succeeding in making sparks dance across his vision when that translated into his grinding on the thing in his own arse. And, as if that had been some sort of signal, the spindly tentacle quite abruptly slid out of Sherlock, but before either of them could start to appreciate the reprieve, another one, considerably larger, took its place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took me so long to get back to this! Real life happened in a big way, and it took me a while to build up the necessary, ah, momentum to make the fic start working again. And I do apologize for leaving it at that for now. *flops about on floor trying to follow plot bunny*
> 
> This is also in partial fulfillment of what I owe [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/pseuds/snogandagrope). A placeholder, so to speak (though a poor one given the still WiP-ness of it, sorry!), while I work out a battle plan for her fluffy Johnlock Christmas prompt for Fics for the Philippines. Thank you so very much for donating! :)
> 
> [ ](http://jamesphillimoresumbrella.tumblr.com/post/66967215712/hello-my-name-is-tessa-i-write-in-the-sherlock)
> 
> If there's anything you'd like me to write for you ~~and if you can stand waiting for me to get my shit together between chapters~~ , do check out [Fics for the Philippines](http://jamesphillimoresumbrella.tumblr.com/post/66967215712/hello-my-name-is-tessa-i-write-in-the-sherlock). The gist of it is that I will write fic for you if you donate to the relief efforts for the victims of Typhoon Haiyan (locally Yolanda). I'll be doing this at least till the end of the year, because I know for sure that the Philippine Red Cross, at least, will be continuing to do very helpful things throughout December. Thanks!


	8. Chapter 8

This wasn't new. The plant had done it before, to both of them, more than once, but it was a hell of a thing to come home to. 

Sherlock gasped, and John wiggled, trying - or thinking of trying - to pull away, because it felt good, sinfully good, better than a tentacle fucking his flatmate's arse at the same time as him had any right to be, but, Jesus, he wasn't sure if the plant had prepared Sherlock enough for this, something that he felt was only evidenced by the strangled sob that escaped Sherlock's lips as the thing inched in a little deeper. He did his best to do what he thought was the right thing, bracing himself on his elbows, snapping his hips back and up, but when it became clear that he wasn't merely getting ready for his next thrust, Sherlock snarled in protest and dug his bony heels into the back of John's thighs to keep him in place. And before he could ask if that really was what Sherlock wanted and not just the plant stringing him along like a marionette, the plant - acute as ever at sensing just when he was about to become uncooperative - pushed a tentacle dripping with nectar to his lips.

John resisted for all of maybe ten seconds because that was how long it took for him to think, somewhat distantly, that that was a bit much, wasn't it, having something in his mouth as well, you had to draw the line somewhere, didn't you, it was already weird as fuck, but, yes, he was going along with it anyway. Or it just as likely could have been because, by that time, the taste of the plant-juice had begun to seep into his mouth, even through his tightly-pressed lips, and there never was much he could do after that. 

He let the thing slip into his mouth, and he sucked, shockingly eager for the taste of it now that it was there, pulsing and oozing against his tongue with an urgency that John found wholly surprising. It felt like a kiss, a sloppy, desperate, saving-you-from-drowning kiss of the variety that seemed to imply that the plant had _missed_ him, had been positively certain that he'd never ever be coming back, and was now so relieved to have him back in its clutches that it wasn't going to let go for a very, _very_ long time. 

If John could have spared a thought, it might have occurred to him that he was projecting human emotions onto what was one of the least human _things_ he was ever likely to encounter, but there wasn't room in his brain for that. He had to concentrate on swallowing, because the nectar was thicker this time, and it tasted sharper, more potent, as if all the compounds that the plant hadn't had a chance to release in all the time that they'd been gone were being secreted now, in a sticky-sweet slide down John's throat. And it was _difficult_ to concentrate on swallowing, because  the tentacle in his arse - which, apart from the initial thrust and that one sudden twist, had stayed relatively still, content, it seemed, to keep John stretched open and obscenely full - started to fuck him properly, with each push driving him into Sherlock, who whimpered, and moaned, and canted his hips as well as he could with the plant holding him in place, and the thick appendage squeezed inside him next to John's cock.

That tentacle was moving too, thrusting and twisting in time with the one fucking John,  and it was a marvel that he didn't fall apart then and there, strung out between  honey-colored acquiescence  and overwhelming physical sensation ( _friction_ and  _pressure_ and _heat_ and  _skin_ and  _all the bloody tentacles everywhere at once_ ).  All he could do was suck, swallow, thrust, and _breathe_ , riding it out as best he could. As he gagged a little on the stuff flooding his mouth, he thought that he'd rather like to kiss Sherlock again, lick into his mouth with his tongue coated with the plant's juice - Sherlock liked that, he'd said as much before, and it seemed to John that the situation could do with more things that Sherlock liked, or at least things that Sherlock would enjoy a bit more with some of the nectar in his system. Between the way his eyes were scrunched shut and how he was swearing (in different languages too, or at least it sounded like it), John wasn't quite sure how good things were for him, but then he did seem to be holding up well enough.  

Or perhaps not.  His movements became more erratic, his passably articulate vocalizations dissolved into stuttering, open-mouthed gasps, and before John could think of helping him along (he had a free hand, it was so easy to forget that he had a free hand, all it was doing was clutching the sheets next to Sherlock's shoulder), a second tendril slipped in, thinner but making up for its lack of girth by twining slickly around John's shaft, and then Sherlock was coming, cock untouched, body clenching impossibly tight around John and the tentacles, back bowed to such a degree that John was afraid something would snap or at least pop, head tossing from side to side on the pillow, uttering broken little cries as semen striped his belly and chest.

He looked thoroughly, beautifully wrecked, and John did kiss him then because the tentacle left his mouth, smearing stickily down his chin and across his cheek. Sherlock was mostly passive, almost shell-shocked, slackly opening his mouth, lightly dragging his lips along John's lower one, though he found the energy to growl deep in his throat when John began to slow his movements.

"Don't you dare stop," he said hoarsely, impossible eyes opened wide as though the very thought of John stopping would be the death of him.

And so John, unable to refuse Sherlock anything that wasn't obviously and immediately detrimental to life and limb, did _not_ stop. He went on with careful, shallow thrusts until he couldn't be careful any longer, and he rammed his hips against Sherlock's arse, trapping the tentacles between their bodies as his own orgasm tore through him, white hot and all-encompassing and blinding. 

He pulled out as soon as he could see again, because it seemed a colossally bad idea to cram anything more inside Sherlock, and the root-tentacles never took long to get about their work. The plant had loosened its grip enough for him to roll off of Sherlock as well, releasing his cock and slipping out of his arse, and John fell heavily beside him on the mattress, staring at the cracks on the ceiling until he no longer felt that his heart was going to burst if he so much as scraped his little finger against the sheets. He looked over at Sherlock, blinking hard so that things would come into focus.

The plant was holding his arse and thighs up off of the bed, but otherwise the man was limp. He had a forearm thrown dramatically over his eyes, and was drawing in deep gulps of air through parted lips. John gave a sympathetic shudder as the tentacle pulled out of his arse - it looked alarmingly huge from this angle - only to be replaced by a snarled knot of root fibers. It seemed as though the things had gotten all tangled in their hurry to push through the soil, and the ones that wrapped around John's prick were hardly any better. The rough little bundles on his too-sensitive skin nearly made him jump.        

"You okay, Sherlock?" he asked, turning onto his side. 

"Ngh." The detective swiped a hand absently over his stomach as if he meant to clean up the mess there, but all he managed to do was spread it around. 

"Just - that was a bit intense, wasn't it?" 

Sherlock slid his arm up to his sweaty forehead, opened one eye.  "Are you offering to kiss it better?" 

That took John aback. All he'd meant to do was check if he needed to do any post-coital doctoring, but Sherlock's tone implied that he wanted a post-coital something-else-entirely. Perhaps without the "post". He raised his eyebrows in inquiry. "If you like."

"Please." And Sherlock spread his legs a few significant inches in a decidedly unsubtle invitation.

The plant was thankfully less demanding at this stage. Though it did not let go of John, keeping vines looped around his arm and his thigh (maybe for security, maybe to keep him from running away for the time being) it let him scoot down the bed until he was level with Sherlock's groin. He wasn't quite soft yet: it didn't take much more than a judiciously applied palmful of nectar to have him fully erect again, and the careful work of John's lips and tongue, coupled with the appendages inside him going after every bit of John's ejaculate, quickly had him coming in John's mouth with what sounded very much like a long, satisfied sigh.

The taste of him mingled with the plant's secretion had a pleasant warmth curling in the pit of John's stomach - so pleasant, in fact, that it would have had him aching for another round if he wasn't so utterly spent and if Sherlock wasn't lying so bonelessly and obviously blissed out next to him now that the vines had let go of his bottom. There would, he thought, be time enough for that later on. Possibly after a nap and a square meal that would have to be takeaway because John would have bet real money that the contents of the fridge were sentient by now. Definitely after the plant was done feeding, or whatever it was you called it when plants absorbed things through their roots ( _botany was not John's strong suit_ ).

He curled up against Sherlock's side, conscientiously leaving space for the tentacles spread over the wet spot that had dribbled onto the sheets, with his head resting on the juncture of his shoulder and chest, so that he felt the rumble of the words as his flatmate went on about the necessity of pruning the plant's yellowed leaves. It was unbeatable as soporifics went, and the fact that it was interrupted by a yawn every now and then was oddly endearing. John snuggled closer, and was quite happily drifting off when Sherlock murmured a thoughtful "I wonder," that set off alarm bells clanging in the doctor's head. 

"Mmm?" he asked, struggling to stay awake as he was very much aware that this was the sort of thing that preceded eyeballs in the microwave, or getting locked in a serial killer's flat with the serial killer still in it. 

"What if I made cuttings?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And how long does it take to finish writing a sex scene? Very long. _Ages_. Apparently when I hit ~5000 words of porn, I hit a wall, and it takes a lot of knocking my head against said wall (i.e., 7 pages worth of ugly handwritten drafts, and lots of frustrated hair-pulling and dramatic throwing down of the drafts, shouting "This thing does not happen!" in manner of La Carlotta) for me to get over it. *nervously eyes other WiP's that need the same treatment* 
> 
> But here it is, and I'm sorry for the incredibly long wait!
> 
> And I am formally offering this one up to [snogandagrope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snogandagrope/pseuds/snogandagrope), as an apology for having let the days of Christmas run out without having finished that fluffy Johnlock Christmas fic for Fics for the Philippines. *hides face in shame* I am sorry, and I'll get it done before this year's Advent season rolls around!


End file.
